he fancied front seat-harmonization in blue mustangs and his rosy fingers disturbingly drowning amidst the silky waves of her red seas, slow dancing to elvis presley under strass-crystal chandeliers with lover girl in his arms.
she, although an odd one- with her sangria stains on sweat-soaked linen, his disheveled tangles, and dacryphilia. pour out her melancholic shades of aegean- let his oozing scarlet form lilac skies upon the crook of his neck. she had always thought lilac complimented his melanin skin perfectly- with those forest eyes and flamingo lips- pretty little boy would be the death of her.
he was succulent peaches in tin cans and passionfruit flowers blossoming from his cuticles; and at times she could taste the hunger upon his quivering lips.
maybe their forged scars would canoodle to manifest profound constellations she could point out to him and purr in his ears- faithless names. perhaps from the hilltop where he was forsaken, it was a majestic map of the heavens, but she flew higher than the skies- hell can be pretty if she pleases.
where she found ungodly sins in charcoal powdered nights, he found a brutal love that led to his quintessential demise.
but psyche never intended to burn cupid- blind faith can be vicious if he pleases.
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guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
